


Still Working on that Retirement Thing

by thewightknight



Category: John Wick (2014), John Wick: Chapter 2 (2017)
Genre: Gen, good dogs, how john wick 3 ends, some unspecified number of years in the future, the puppies are fine, there are puppies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-15
Updated: 2017-02-15
Packaged: 2018-09-24 14:49:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9766436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewightknight/pseuds/thewightknight
Summary: A wandering assassin.  A retired assassin.  Dogs.  You know how this is going to end.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The husband and I just got back from seeing John Wick: Chapter 2, and we decided this is how Chapter 3 should end. Kinda maybe spoilery for Ch 2?
> 
> I don't really think this needs the violence tag, but it is John Wick, so I ended going back and adding it just in case.

The only thing moving on this stretch of deserted highway besides the Range Rover were the tumbleweeds. Sand and scrub stretched out to the horizon, with a faint hint of mountains barely visible through the heat haze. It was impossible to tell what color the Rover was under the coating of dust, and only the periodic applications of wiper fluid kept the windshield clear. 

What seemed to be a mirage at first, an oasis amidst the unbroken beige, firmed and solidified as the Range Rover approached. A forlorn gas station with a giant dilapated garage stood on the road side, sign hanging lopsided from one hook. The Rover signaled and pulled over, rolling up to the single pump. 

After a few minutes a man got out, his appearance at odds with his vehicle and surroundings. Sleek platinum hair was pulled into a knot at the base of his neck and he wore a tailored black suit, material shimmering in the sunlight, over a white shirt open at the neck. Taking off a pair of mirrored sunglasses, he surveyed the station, squinting against the glare. 

Three dogs emerged from beside the garage. All three seemed about the same age, chocolate brown in color. One had a white patch on its forehead and another on its chest. They surveyed the visitor, ears cocked, alert but not hostile. The man held his hand out and one of them barked.

The door to the station opened and a grizzled man stepped out, face tanned and leathery, hair more salt than pepper. He walked to the pump, a slight limp not slowing him down.

“You’re a long way from nowhere,” the man said in greeting.

“Looking for someone.”

“Ah.”

They faced off against each other, eyes locked. The blond man moved first, going for a gun in a shoulder holster. Before he’d drawn, a shot rang out, then another, the cracks loud in the stillness. One bullet hit the driver in the shoulder and the other high in the chest. He dropped, hand falling away from his gun.

Limping over, the other man stood over him, shaking his head.

“What’s it up to now?”

“Sixty million.” Blood stained his lips as he coughed out the words.

One more shot and blood splattered the wheel. The old man hoisted up the new corpse, dragging it around to the back and dumping it in the back of the Rover. Driving it around behind the garage, he parked it between a Lincoln and a battered jeep. Leaving the keys in, he shut the door, patting the hood of his Mustang as he walked past. That was seven in the last three years. He might have to consider moving soon. Shame. He liked the desert.


End file.
